<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>You know you'll never leave me by NeusWastedLife</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530928">You know you'll never leave me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeusWastedLife/pseuds/NeusWastedLife'>NeusWastedLife</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstage, Concerts, Deacury, M/M, Rock and Roll, Short One Shot, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:28:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeusWastedLife/pseuds/NeusWastedLife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Deacy, yeah, that guy who plays bass because no one thinks he has anything to say, makes Freddie Mercury have his jaw skin bristling in front of millions of people.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Deacon/Freddie Mercury</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Kink Week Queen &amp; BoRhap.</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You know you'll never leave me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everyone! This is the first time I participate in a Week, I’m really excited but to be honest I don’t know if my work fits well in your expectations because I guess it’s not something “kink” per se, but I hope you like it anyway. Because of the lyrics of this prompt, I was inspired by what has always suggested to me the interactions between John and Freddie during the choirs of Liar, in the videoclip and the lives from the ‘70s. In the past, it was precisely this kind of “approach ritual” that made me begin to ship deacury. Like the song and its lyrics, I find it very suggestive and erotic, so I hope I managed to capture all that in a brief intimate moment between the two of them after a concert night where they played this song.</p><p>Also, I’m Spanish and my writing style is maybe atipical, and difficult to adapt to English. I’ve done what I could translating it so that it can be understood without losing “my signature”.</p><p>Well, I don’t want to bore you anymore with chatter. Without any further delay, I hope you enjoy it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And to think that it all started because he wanted to sing... Deacy, yeah, that guy who plays bass because no one thinks he has anything to say, makes Freddie Mercury have his jaw skin bristling in front of millions of people. In fact, he bristles in more areas that he did not remember he had right up until the clamor of his <em>«All day long»</em> splashed in his face, and the singer's smile split the temperature in two when he understood the sudden magnetism that his microphone had taken on the silent Deacon. So he retains it, enjoys it, circles around it to covet that outburst that smells of sweat, tastes like aphonic laughs and sounds like an entire stadium chanting the songs of four strangers who that night has crowned. Fred keep twisting between them as what it is, a privilege and suddenly, the only thing he can think of, with his ears plugged and pierced by that beep of deafness and urgency, is that John's fingers are playing for him, but not <em>with</em> him.</p><p>The lures of a Queen have burned stages for much less...</p><p>When the show ends and they are guided through the only exit safe enough for the fame that weights upon their shoulders, Freddie manages to locate the corner in time so the darkness behind the huge platform eats John before him. The youngest one looks at him against the backstage wall, with that spark of surprise that seems innocent until Freddie sees that the only thing that worries him is that the contact will last only until the others realize that the toothy legend has disappeared. Not much time, just as long as they can keep still after the dry blow and the bite in the shadows.</p><p>Trembling, palpitations, gasps, the feeling of still being at the mercy of a crowd, which only begins to fade by having the eyes tightly closed and the moans coming out of the other’s mouth; Finding the ecstasy of the concert in the grip of their bodies. John stifles a laugh when Freddie practically tackles his stomach in the process of “forcing” him to cover his entire damn bulges with one hand. The bassist smiles in pain as he regains control of his own movements, bends over Fred all the choking width of the corner allows him and looks at the demanding frontman with defiance over his shoulder, while proceeding to recreate what has awakened so much jealousy up there; now inside his pants.</p><p><em>«I’m gonna serve you ‘til your dying day.» </em>John seems to hum quietly, even if he never sings —but he always talk.</p><p>Freddie closes his eyes again right there and for a moment his grunts of fulfilled frustration seem able to compete with the fucking <em>London Philharmonic Orchestra</em> that wouldn’t be able to do much against the masturbating fingers of John Deacon. The onslaught of the space is electrifying, almost epileptic, totally poisoned by the haze they already had and that can finally be amplified in intimacy, with one’s art and the other’s precision.</p><p>Between the groan of the crushed flesh, the frizzy hairs face to face, getting lost in the lips through more groans, the bassist plays and the singer sings his voice out. As it should be. Or as their inappropriate black clothes will have to deal with later.</p><p>
  <em>Damnitthere'snotimeDamnitfuckmewiththosefingers.</em>
</p><p>The world is an expert in looking where it shouldn't, after all.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>